


I Won't Let You Fall

by Aaron_The_8th_Demon



Series: Holding [26]
Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Brief Mention Of Anxiety/Depression, Developing Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, Internalized Transphobia, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Not Hockey Players (Hockey RPF), Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2020-05-16 08:32:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19314469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aaron_The_8th_Demon/pseuds/Aaron_The_8th_Demon
Summary: Brad jumps off the couch when he hears the knocking. His heart is pounding inside his ribs like he just got off the treadmill - he always gets nervous on first dates, even though he’s gone on tons of them by now. Maybe that’s it. He’s nervous because he wants this to go for more than just one date. Patrice is tall and gorgeous and calm, all things Brad wishes he could’ve been when he became an adult, and he just. He needs this to go well.





	I Won't Let You Fall

It’s not who he’s expecting to come walking into his office, not the nickname he’s expecting to hear, not the conflicted feeling he’s expecting to have. Because he’s not expecting to feel conflicted or be called by a nickname or see someone he recognizes at all. Right now, he’s sitting at his desk doing paperwork on environment-of-care crap, rubbing his temples and wishing he’d been smart enough to grab three Starbucks energy drinks from the cafeteria instead of just two.

And then this shows up: “Yo, Bergy, nice office!” Because there’s Brad Marchand, the firefighter he made friends with when he took his HAZWOPER-40 class, looking way too handsome for anyone’s good in his navy cargo pants and red polo shirt with the fire station’s logo on the chest.

“Brad? Hi, uh, what are you doing here?”

“Chief sent me, he said there’s some SCBA tanks that need to get hydrostatically tested.”

“Oh, those. Yeah, they’re in the decon storage by the ED.” Patrice sets down his stack of papers and gets up to take Brad there.

“So how come you have those?”

“The decon tent erects pneumatically, we could have an air hose take twenty minutes to do it or have five tanks get it done in twenty seconds.”

“Cool.” Brad makes a face at him, looking at his belt and snorting. “Got enough keys, man?”

Patrice smiles. He’s been an environmental specialist for just under a year, so by now he’s almost stopped noticing the rhythmic clanking on his leg every time he takes a step. “There’s a lot of doors, man. Most of them have badge scanners now, but it’s still good to have actual keys.”

They get in the elevator and Brad stands entirely too close to Patrice, but he can’t even pretend it bothers him. They took a class together eight months ago and haven’t seen each other since until now, but somehow Patrice just… really likes this guy, no matter how unreasonable that would probably sound to outside parties.

“Hey, when do you get off?” Brad asks.

“Five thirty… officially. I have to stay late a lot to take care of things. Why?”

“We should hang out. Go get beer or something, watch the hockey game together.”

“Tonight?”

“Tomorrow, actually, that’s when my shift ends. Plus the Bruins are playing the Habs, it’d be great to watch those bastards get thrashed with a box of beer and cute guy in my apartment,” Brad grins, absolutely shameless.

 _Oh my god, he’s hitting on me,_ is Patrice’s first (slightly panicked) thought. He clears his throat nervously and Brad’s eyebrows twitch. Is it possible for eyebrows to have so much emotion in them? Because now Brad obviously thinks he’s about to get rejected, and that’s just unacceptable.

“Yeah, I can come over tomorrow night,” Patrice tells him, probably without thinking about it thoroughly enough.

This answer earns him a huge smile. “Great! Do you want chips? Oh, you work out though, right? We don’t have to have chips. We could do something else. There’s going to be pizza, though, because I always have pizza with hockey. What kind of beer do you like?”

That’s… a lot at once. Patrice just looks at Brad stupidly for a second while he tries to untangle everything that was just thrown at him, and then they’re getting off the elevator and heading towards the emergency department.

“I’m not that picky, but I prefer Canadian beer as a rule,” he finally answers. “And yes, chips are fine.”

“Cool. What’s your cell number? I’ll text you ahead of time and give you my address.”

Patrice tells it to him and unlocks the storage while he puts it into his phone. Thank god, the SCBA tanks are right inside the door and he doesn’t have to go digging for them. “Alright, where are we taking these?”

“My truck’s in the ED parking lot,” Brad answers, grabbing one under each arm. “You know you should really store these upright, if you’re not careful they can explode and kill someone.”

“Oh. You’re probably right, I didn’t think of that. I’m still a little bit new at this job,” Patrice explains.

“That’s okay, bro, just remember it going forward,” Brad shrugs.

The tanks are piled into the back seat of Brad’s Colorado and he even buckles them in. Then he’s eyeing Patrice.

“What? You look like you want to say something…”

“You seemed kind of nervous, I just want to be like, upfront about his, okay? Yes, I am totally asking you over to my place expecting this to be a date, but I promise I’m not going to try and get into your pants.” Then Brad grins. “That’s a second date goal… oh come on, don’t look like that, I was kidding!”

Patrice’s guts are tying into knots, but he smiles. “Okay. Since you promise not to try getting in my pants. I don’t think that would work so well for you anyway, they’d be too long for your legs.”

Brad laughs. “Good one.” His smile turns genuine after that, though. “I’m glad you said yes. I know we don’t know each other that well yet, but I do really like you. Worst case scenario, we can probably at least be friends, eh?”

Patrice can’t help smiling back. “Yeah, of course.” The door of the truck is closed. “I have to get back to work, but… thanks for asking me. I’m looking forward to it.”

“Me, too. I’ll text you later,” Brad grins, going around the side to get behind the wheel.

Patrice goes back in through the ambulance bay and freaks out a little more with each step. It’s been… a long time since he’s gone on a date with anyone. A _really_ long time - his last relationship ended months before he started working here at the hospital.

The thing of it is, Patrice is very, very privileged on this issue. He wanted to play hockey as a kid, and he got to. He always had nice clothes, a room full of toys, and good food to eat. He tried telling his mom he was a boy when he was six, and she told him no, so two days later he brought Emma home from school with him and yelled for ten minutes that she was his girlfriend because he thought that’s what he was supposed to do to prove he was really a boy. Because boys have girlfriends. And it worked, surprisingly. He was taken to a psychologist and the psychologist told him that yes, he’s a boy, he’ll just have to take medicine when he’s bigger so that everyone else knows he’s a boy, too. His mom let him be a boy because he had a girlfriend.

Which means that she and his father and his brother always ask when he’s bringing a girl home to meet them. They only let him be who he is because they thought, and still think, that he’s straight. But he’s not. So Trevor kept asking to meet his family, and Patrice kept saying no, and Trevor got fed up. (“My family’s cool with me being a gay trans guy, why can’t yours be, Pat?”)

And now, here’s this unsuspecting fireman, who’s loud and rambunctious and exactly everything that isn’t Patrice’s type but Patrice really likes him anyway. Brad has no idea that Patrice is trans, which… good. Patrice doesn’t like people knowing. If asked, he never denies it, but he’s tall and reasonably good-looking and since he wasn’t forced to go through the wrong puberty before going on testosterone he doesn’t even have surgery lines on his chest to give him away, so nobody ever suspects. Nobody ever suspects, that is, until they want to have sex with him and he says no. Even then they don’t suspect. They ask what’s wrong, did they do something, is he okay. And then he has to explain himself to them, and they never look at him the same way as they did before, even if they’re okay with it. He hates that.

* * *

Brad jumps off the couch when he hears the knocking. His heart is pounding inside his ribs like he just got off the treadmill - he always gets nervous on first dates, even though he’s gone on tons of them by now. Maybe that’s it. He’s nervous because he wants this to go for more than just one date. Patrice is tall and gorgeous and calm, all things Brad wishes he could’ve been when he became an adult, and he just. He needs this to go well. The guys keep setting him up on blind dates and it’s the same thing every time - it’s that one gay friend Pasta has, it’s that one gay friend Sean has, it’s that one gay friend Danton has. They set him up on those dates because he and that one gay friend are the only gay guys they know, not because they think Brad will have anything in common with that gay friend.

He really needs a boyfriend so that that stops. Besides, he wasn’t expecting to see Patrice again after the HAZWOPER course, so this was… a really nice surprise. Because he likes Patrice. A lot. Like, way too much probably, because they’ve so far spent a forty hour class and then ten minutes talking about SCBA tanks together. But fuck if that wasn’t a stupidly good ten minutes - Patrice in a nice shirt with a tie, looking all professional and shit, shouldn’t even be legal because it could send cars off the road with such distracting beauty. Brad’s really proud of himself for not popping a boner right there in front of him the whole time they were talking.

“Hey, man! Come on in!” Brad yells when he opens the door, putting on his best smile.

“Hi,” Patrice smiles back, and… fuck, maybe Patrice should just be shielded from public view to stop the distraction from killing people, because. Seriously. Wow.

They sit on opposite ends of Brad’s couch and crack bottles of Molson, clinking them together before taking sips. The pregame is just wrapping up, which is perfect timing. Brad knows he’s not being subtle as he stares, but the truth is he just can’t help it - in jeans and a Bobby Orr jersey, Patrice is still just as beautiful as when he’s dressed for his job. It’s making Brad really worried that he’ll do or say something stupid… or at least, stupider than usual.

“You look really good,” he finally blurts out, because he just can’t stop himself.

And there’s that smile again. “Thanks, man.” Brad is fucking dying.

“So I got two different pizzas since I didn’t know what you like on yours,” he babbles, leaning towards the coffee table and flipping back the lid on both boxes. “That one has meat and that one has vegetables… uh, obviously. So like, have as much as you want, because there’s plenty. Also obviously.” What the fuck is wrong with him?! Why can’t he just be fucking normal and not talk like such a dumbass? Well, the answer is because Brad _is_ a fucking dumbass. He always has been.

Patrice grabs a slice of both and starts eating the veggie piece first. Brad distracts himself by opening the bag of chips - and it explodes all over the god damn room. Grumbling every swear word he knows, he picks them up and drops them on the table. So much for that.

“Do you know how to skate?” Patrice asks, distracting him from the disaster that is his entire life.

“Yeah, I actually played when I was a kid… why?”

“Oh, you did? So did I, I was a center. You?”

“Left wing. I wanted to do it in college but I couldn’t get a scholarship… couldn’t afford it by myself, so I ended up becoming a firefighter instead. How long did you play for?”

“Through high school. I had kind of a similar problem, um… I have a… a medical issue, so they wouldn’t let me play in college. I ended up not going to college at all, but that’s okay. I’ve got credentials now from going to courses through the hospital. I like my job most of the time.”

“Yeah, you’re the hazmat guy, right?”

“Among other things,” Patrice chuckles, taking a sip of beer. “I handle the waste stream and environment-of-care stuff, too, and I also help educate the staff on certain issues. Like Creutzfeldt-Jacobs Disease. The OR especially had to be told about that… if there’s ever a patient who comes in with that condition and needs surgery, the tools and equipment would pretty much just have to be taken out into the parking lot and flamethrowered.”

“God damn, is it that bad?”

“It’s Mad Cow Disease, they just call it a different name when it’s a human instead of a cow.”

“God damn.”

They’re distracted by the start of the game - the first ten minutes are a shit-show. The Habs score after 2:34 and then somehow the refs don’t call a Bruin getting boarded, which has both of them on their feet screaming at the television in outrage. Brad feels a little less self-conscious after that, knowing that Patrice gets just as upset about sports as him. One of his previous boyfriends didn’t like hockey and had constantly gotten annoyed about Brad taking it so seriously… granted, that ex-boyfriend was also American, so he clearly just didn’t get it.

“Maybe they’ll do better next period,” Patrice suggests as the first intermission rolls around. “Montreal only scored once, that’s not unfixable.”

“Yeah, but the team that scores first usually wins,” Brad grumbles before cramming another piece of pizza into his mouth.

“You never know, though.”

“Yeah, I guess.” He looks over at Patrice. “So like, I gotta ask. What medical condition? You look amazing, I never would’ve guessed you have like, a medical thing.”

Patrice shrugs. “It’s… not something you can see right away. Most people don’t guess, and that’s how I like it. There’s nothing anyone can do about it anyway, so… I don’t usually talk about it.”

“Hey, it’s cool, I was just wondering. I have a medical condition, too. It’s called ‘unbelievably stupid.’”

He worries for a split second that that’s offensive, like he’s not taking this subject seriously enough or he’s being disrespectful, but Patrice bursts out laughing and ends up bent over. “I don’t think you’re stupid, Brad, but thank you for that.”

“No problem,” he grins, relieved.

They both attack the pizza again and have a second round of beer. “So what do you do when there’s no fires?”

“Equipment maintenance, hydrostatic testing, training modules… not all my shifts are as a firefighter, either, I’m an EMT too. My favorite thing to do is when we go to schools and talk to kids about fire safety, you can see how much they love it. Sometimes we’ll bring gear and pick a couple kids to try it on, that’s always fun.”

“Cute,” Patrice remarks, glancing his way and smiling. “Your job sounds a lot more fun than mine, a lot of what I do is paperwork. I fill out forms for environment-of-care, the removal of path waste, the pickup and return of sharps boxes, disposal of expired pharmaceuticals… everything has a stack of papers attached, and they all go through me.”

“That seems really fucking boring, dude.”

“It is. But I don’t always mind, there aren’t too many surprises and everyone says I’m good at it. And I’m okay with staying late usually, I don’t have any pets to take care of and my family lives in Quebec, so it’s not like I have anything better to do.”

“Don’t you have friends?”

“Yeah, but they’re all work friends. I like them okay but I don’t want my work to invade my home. Those two things need to be separate.”

“Okay.” Brad nods slowly. “So… how do I fit in there? I know this is really informal as far as a first date goes, but you said even if it doesn’t go anywhere we can still be friends, so…”

“You’re not part of work,” Patrice answers, smiling kindly. “I know you came to pick up the SCBA tanks, but that’s only a yearly inspection, so it doesn’t count. And this is far from the worst date I’ve ever been on.”

“Great,” he grins. “What’s the worst date you’ve ever been on then, Bergy?”

“Let’s see…” Patrice looks up at the ceiling, frowning thoughtfully. It’s endearing, just like everything else about him. “I don’t know if this counts, because it turned out not to be a date… I just thought it was. I met up with this guy at a bar, which… I now know is a terrible idea for a first date. Then it wasn’t just him there, but him and his boyfriend. They wanted me to join them for a threesome. I said no. I was… really unimpressed with that situation.”

“Yeah, that’s shitty,” Brad giggles. “Let’s see, my worst date was actually a blind date set up by the guys. I got stood up. Which is like, whatever, you know, probably they showed him a picture of me and he decided not to go because I’m fuck ugly. His loss, though, I’m never boring.”

“You’re not fuck ugly,” Patrice argues. “Don’t say that.”

“What, you want me to lie?” Brad snorts.

“It’s not lying, I don’t know why you think you’re ugly because you’re really not. To prove it, I’m going to say… against my better judgment, because I’m sure you’ll tease me for this… that seeing you come into my office in your fire department uniform was very distracting for me. I kept thinking about it for the rest of the day yesterday.”

“Why would I tease you about that? You just gave me like, a huge fucking ego-boost.”

“Don’t you tease everyone? I remember you making fun of people during the HAZWOPER class…”

“Not everyone, just everyone who’s not you. You’re above chirping.”

Patrice seems confused by that idea. “Okay, but why?”

“Because you’re like, so far out of my league it’s stupid, but here you are anyway. It makes me want to wrap you up in blankets and spoil you.”

Brad cringes internally when he hears that come out of his own mouth, but Patrice just looks surprised.

“Why do you think I’m so high above you, Brad? You were at least brave enough to ask me on a date. I probably would’ve just stared at you and then felt stupid for not saying anything when I had the chance.”

“Are you shy?”

“A little. Actually… I should probably just tell you this now, but it’s because of my family. They don’t - they don’t know that I’m gay, and my last boyfriend really didn’t appreciate that. In fact it’s the main reason he broke up with me. He thought I was ashamed of him even though I wasn’t. I don’t think they would be able to accept me for who I am, and… people don’t like that. It makes me nervous about dating to the point where you’re the first guy I’ve gone out with in probably a year and a half.”

Brad, for a long and awkward moment, doesn’t really know what to say to all that. Finally he swallows. “Well, I’m sorry your family isn’t accepting. I just want you to know I don’t really mind that, though, I know it’s not your fault and if it’s not safe for you to be out to them I’m not going to push you to do anything. But I am kind of honored that after all that time I’m the one you said yes to.”

For the most split of split seconds, something terrible seems to be happening to Patrice, but it goes away so quickly Brad’s not even sure he saw it and then there’s that gorgeous, distracting smile. “Thanks, Brad. I feel a little better about it now.”

* * *

Patrice still can’t believe that he almost started crying during their date three days ago.

There’s doing something embarrassing on a date, and then there’s doing something _irredeemably embarrassing_ on a date. That would’ve fallen into the second category, no contest. It was just that what Brad said was probably the nicest thing he’s heard from anyone all year, and combine that with the fact Brad clearly meant every word of it… Patrice isn’t sure how he managed not to burst into tears right there on the couch. He deserves a medal for that amount of effort.

Really though, everything else about that date was great except for the Bruins losing 3-1. Brad was very entertaining the whole time, but also really nice, alternating between lovingly making fun of his friends at the fire station and asking what kinds of things Patrice likes to do during downtime (probably to plan future dates). Patrice already liked Brad before he knew him very well. Knowing Brad better now, Patrice likes him even more.

That really scares him, though. He meant what he said about keeping his work and home lives separate - no matter what the state law says about him being protected from discrimination for gender identity or sexual orientation, people as so volatile. Even if absolutely nothing else changes, if his work friends or his bosses knew he’s trans, they would immediately start treating him differently. He’d be an object to get studied, at first, and there would inevitably be The Question: “If you’re just going to be gay, then why would you want to turn into a man?” Management would be scared of him because of discrimination lawsuits. And that’s all the best case scenario. Worst case, they’ll find ways to make him so miserable that he quits. (Despite his complaints about paperwork, Patrice really does like his job. He doesn’t want to be forced out.)

So, because of those things, he never goes out drinking with coworkers. He doesn’t attend birthday parties that aren’t in the office. He stops answering the phone after he goes home unless it’s the hospital’s number because that means an emergency. It’s lonely, but it’s safe. Everyone at work thinks he’s shy or aloof or something, but they don’t seem to hold it against him or talk behind his back too much. Brad seems to fit in those rules. Nothing is ever 100% safe, of course, but Brad’s not from work. Brad can be his friend. If they keep going on dates and keep liking each other as much as they do, Brad can be his boyfriend eventually.

Except Patrice is afraid of that, too. Nine times out of ten, other men lose interest once they find out he’s trans. They say they’ve tried it with that set of parts and didn’t like it, or they’re more blatant assholes about it and tell him he doesn’t count. (Once, Patrice got really angry and said, “Well what am I, then?”, pointing to his scruff and his broad shoulders and his height. Dean had shrugged at him with this awful cold look. “I don’t know. Something in between.”)

He really hopes it doesn’t go that route with Brad. Brad’s so great, and he seems really forgiving of people he likes, and he’s cute and he’s funny and he’s so full of life. He’s… lovable. Patrice could definitely love Brad, given the time to do so. And he wants that. He wants to get the time to love Brad, he wants Brad to love back given that same amount of time. But Patrice also wants Brad to love him for who he is. He wants Brad to not mind that he was born missing his Y-chromosome. He wants Brad to be alright with never meeting his family, because no way is Patrice going to be ready for that to happen ever. He wants Brad to be okay with the fact that sometimes he sits on his bed and cries for no reason, and the fact that he’s on Wellbutrin for his anxiety/depression symptoms, and the fact that he’s too afraid to use the staff locker room at work. He wants Brad to be okay with the fact that he’s a pathetic mess.

And this has been lingering in the back of his head for the last three days. It’s still there as he’s pulling his skates out of their box in his closet. Patrice groans looking at them - they definitely need to be sharpened, and there’s tiny spots of surface rust infrequently dotting the sides of the blades. Well… it’s not the end of the world, he’ll just have to get there a couple minutes early so they can be sharpened. He’ll text Brad and let him know what happened, just in case.

Brad finds him when he’s waiting his turn: “Hey, how’s it going?”

“Alright, I guess… these poor things need a tune-up.”

“You should do pick-up games, you played all through school like me, right? You’d be great for that,” Brad comments.

“Maybe. It’s been a long time since I’ve even held a stick, though.”

“Don’t worry about that, it’s like riding a bike. I didn’t play for a few years after school, ’cause you know, fire training and then I moved here so I had no free time… then I started doing it a few times a month for fun and it’s really not hard to get back into it like at all. Muscle memory and shit.”

Patrice finds himself chuckling. “I’ll think about it. So you still play, then?”

“Yeah, well, when I have time. Don’t always have time. My brother and his wife just had a baby so I had to drive up to Halifax and see them a couple weeks ago and I missed a game. Plus the guys being jackasses, always sending me on blind dates with their stupid friends… but whatever. Don’t gotta worry about that right now, at least.” Brad gives him a huge grin.

Patrice smiles back. “Just don’t make fun of me when I fall, I haven’t been skating since last winter.”

“I’d never make fun of you, Bergy,” Brad promises, face softening into something nicer. He’s so handsome like this, when his bright expressions become genuine. “I won’t let you fall, either.”

Patrice feels his eyebrows raise against his will. “I don’t know how you’ll manage that, but you’re welcome to try, I guess.”

Once his skates are ready, they sit down together on the bench and take off their snow boots. The sidewalks are clear and it’s not wet out, so Patrice could’ve worn sneakers if he really wanted, but after skating there’s something really nice about not having to tie anything and just shoving his feet into his footwear without thinking about it.

“Ready?” Brad asks when he stands up.

“Hopefully.”

They pay the attendant and step out onto the ice - and then Brad’s holding his hand. Patrice looks over at him immediately, surprised but not at all bothered by this arrangement.

“I guess I can’t stop you from falling,” Brad chuckles, “but this way we’ll go down together and you won’t have to do it by yourself.”

Patrice can’t even think of anything to say in reply, so he just smiles and squeezes Brad’s fingers to show that he approves of this idea. He’s more than a little wobbly at first, it’s been probably since he first started working his current job that he’s been in skates, but Brad’s patient on his left, always smiling and keeping a slow pace. Reading the expression, Patrice realizes Brad’s just happy they’re both here at all. They could be standing still in the middle of the rink and Brad would be fine with it if that’s what Patrice wanted to spend the whole time doing.

“What’re you thinking about?” Brad asks, raising an eyebrow. (His eyebrows, his eyes in general, are so expressive, Patrice notes.)

“Uh… you,” Patrice admits. His cheeks and ears feel warm, but at least his ears are hidden under his toque. He knows for a fact the parts of his face heating up aren’t covered by his scruff.

“Good things?”

“Yeah. You’re really good at dates.”

“I’ve had to go on a lot of them. Most guys don’t make it past the first one… I come on too strong, I guess, or it’s because of my stupid face - wait, sorry, I forgot you don’t like that. And also most of my dates for like, the last six months are always my friends setting me up with their friends, which never goes well. They assume since I’m gay and this friend is gay that that’s all there needs to be for us to have chemistry, and like - I love my friends at the station, don’t get me wrong, but they’re idiots.”

“They sound like they mean well, at least.”

“Oh yeah, they do. I still give them shit for it, though,” Brad grins. “So hey, tell me about your work friends, it’ll force me to shut up for a few minutes.”

Patrice laughs. “Well, my boss Sweeny is evil sometimes, but he’s not usually mean to me. I don’t know if he counts as my friend, though. I have friends in other departments, mostly. There’s Adam from central sterile and Anton from maintenance… I’m friendly with most people even if they’re not my friends. What about your friends? You spend a lot of time joking about them.”

“Okay, I’ll show you my friends,” Brad offers, reaching into his pocket and pulling out his phone. He fiddles for a moment as they glide forward. “Ah, there it is. Okay. Going from left to right is Krej, Danton, Pasta, me obviously, Charlie Coyle, Chuckie McAvoy, Goose, Tuuks, and Jaro. Krej is the shift lieutenant, Pasta’s my best friend and my ambulance partner. The two guys off to the side are the shift captain and our chief - Z and Bruce. They really are all great guys, I swear. I just rag on them a lot because they rag on me a lot. It works out in the end.”

Patrice suddenly feels really lonely looking at this picture. He has no pictures of his friends on his phone because all of his friends are work friends. He could show Brad his parents, he supposes, or Guillaume, but he doesn’t really… want to. Brad will probably never meet them as it is. In this moment, Patrice realizes just how isolated he’s made himself, and that idea hurts a lot more than he was prepared for. Oh god, he’s going to start crying in public, and even worse he’s going to start crying in front of Brad. This is exactly everything he doesn’t need.

Patrice looks away and pretends like he’s just scratching his face or something, when he’s really trying to hide his tears in his glove. Deep, quiet breath. There’s enough ambient noise to cover it, he thinks.

Looking over again, Brad’s scrolling through pictures and seems to have not noticed at all. “So this was… like two years ago I think. Christmas. Those are my grandparents, those are my parents. The prick standing next to me is Jeff… I’m kidding, I love my brother. That’s his wife… I think they were still engaged here, though. Yeah, they got married in January right after this. Anyway. Those are my sisters. That’s Rebecca’s husband, that’s my niece. Melissa’s the one I told all my gay angst to when I was a kid. She outed me to my parents when I was fifteen, and like normally you’re not supposed to do that to someone, but I was really glad she did because then I didn’t have to do it. I was so fucking scared for no reason, too. My dad just made jokes about it and my mom told me that was no excuse not to still wear condoms. Then like a week later Jeff tried to hook me up with one of his friends.”

Patrice laughs unreasonably hard at that, but it’s good. It means he’s not thinking about crying anymore. “It sounds like you have a really nice family.”

“Yeah, they’re great. What about - oh, right. Your family doesn’t know. Sorry. My fucking mouth goes faster than my brain sometimes. Or all the time.”

“It’s okay,” Patrice assures him. “I know you’re just trying to be nice by asking about me. The sad truth is my life just isn’t very interesting.”

Brad snorts. “I know that can’t be true. You’re a hazmat guy at a hospital, something interesting must’ve happened to you by now.”

Slowly, Patrice smiles, because yes, there is a pretty good story he can tell about his job.

“Okay, actually, you’re right. So I was new to my job, I mean _really_ new. I hadn’t taken the HAZWOPER-40 yet, but I knew a little bit from doing hazmat CBTs. So there was a bunch of… some chemical, I can’t remember what exactly. I had to get rid of it, though, because it was dangerous. And I knew that acids and bases will neutralize each other, and neutralization is always the option you should consider first over dilution. But anyway. I put all of this chemical into a 55-gallon drum and poured in the right chemical to neutralize it… but I didn’t factor how much of this chemical there was. I should’ve done it in increments instead of trying to neutralize it all at once. So it was like those science class projects you always see kids doing in tv shows, with the baking soda volcano. Except bright purple, and coming out of a 55-gallon drum. Thank god I was smart enough to suit up first before I did this, because it foamed _all over_ the entire room. It was everywhere, this purple stuff, all over me, all over the walls, on the ceiling, everything. And my supervisor apparently decided that was a good time to come check on me. He couldn’t stop laughing the whole time I explained what happened, and then afterwards I had to clean everything up with no help and write an incident report. He still jokes about it with me sometimes. ‘Don’t go exploding drums of chemicals while you’re over there, Patrice.’ Even if I’m about to go do a laser safety check or something.”

Brad laughs hard enough that Patrice is tugging him along the ice for a moment. “God damn, man, that’s a great story. See, I knew you were interesting.” Slowly, his expression changes. “So like, tell me if this is too much too fast, but can I. Can I get a picture of us both on my phone? Pasta especially doesn’t believe you’re real, he thinks I made you up to get out of going on shitty dates with his friends and - wow, this just sounds worse the more I say, doesn’t it?”

Patrice chuckles. “Don’t worry about it, it’s fine. I, um, I really like you, Brad. You can have a picture of me to show off to your guys if you want.”

It’s all of two seconds between the last word leaving his mouth and Brad talking some stranger into taking the picture for them. They stand against the sideboards with their arms around each other’s shoulders, grinning to the phone camera. Immediately, Patrice watches Brad send the picture to all of his friends in a group text with the caption SEE I TOLD YOU HE’S REAL YOU FUCKERS!!! He laughs so hard he can’t stand up, and when Brad tries to catch him they both fall in a heap on the ice, giggling.

* * *

“Should I be worried you’re calling me at five thirty in the afternoon on a work day, Bradley?” Melissa groans.

“Hi to you too,” he snorts. “And not really, I just-”

“God dammit, I knew it. What did you do this time? Is it another blind date or did you get dumped?”

“Hey, I have more shit that goes on in my life besides just those two things!” Brad yells as he stirs the spaghetti briefly and then the sauce.

“Fine, I’ll bite, what happened?” she sighs from the other end.

“So there’s this guy I’ve been seeing… he’s really nice. I have such a thing for him, you wouldn’t believe. I’ve only gone out with him twice but it went great both times, and he seems like he really likes me a lot, too.”

“Then what’s the problem? I’m assuming you wouldn’t be calling me if there wasn’t one.”

“It seems like there’s something like, eating him. I mean he almost started crying the other day at the ice rink and I have no idea why. I just kind of pretended not to see him and let him bounce back on his own. I really want to ask him what’s wrong, but that could just make it worse and then he’d get mad at me and-”

“Brad, calm down. First, I think it’s amazing you’re actually asking for advice instead of just screwing up. Second, try to be tactful for once in your life if you bring it up to him. Just say something like ‘hey, it looked like something was bothering you the last time we went out, do you want to talk about it?’ Be gentle. Try not to sound nosy, either.”

“Okay.” The timer goes off. “Shit, can you give me like ten seconds?” He strains the spaghetti, pours the sauce over it, shouts “Grub’s on!” into the void hoping the guys will hear it, and then goes back to his phone. “I’m back.”

“So tell me about your new boyfriend.”

“He’s not my boyfriend yet… so far he puts up with me really well. He likes the Bruins. Actually he used to play hockey when he was a kid too, so we went skating for our second date. I even have a picture, I’ll send it to you later.”

“Cool. What’s his name?”

“Patrice Bergeron… he’s from Quebec. I actually met him before this at my hazmat class for the fire department, we kind of ran into each other at his hospital and then I demanded that he go on a date with me. Luckily he said yes and didn’t seem too freaked out about it.”

“Sounds like a nice guy.”

“He is… he’s really cute, too, I don’t know what he’s doing with me. Oh yeah actually apparently he doesn’t think I’m fuck ugly, either, and he told me to stop saying that.”

“Damn, he sounds perfect.”

“I think he might be asexual.”

“Okay, not quite perfect.”

“I mean, I’m fine if he is, I’ve dated someone like that before. He just looks kind of uncomfortable if the idea gets brought up, you know? How do I bring that up, too? I want him to know I’m alright with it but like, with at least a little subtlety. I’m trying to be less of a jackass for this guy, and it’s really hard. I like him a lot. I don’t want to fuck this up.”

“What’s your next date?”

“Uh, I told him I wanted to surprise him. I’m going to take him into Boston tomorrow night to that Italian place I really like, and after that we’re going to go for a walk on the harbor if it’s not too cold out. Since our first two dates were like, super informal and shit, I want to do something really nice for him.”

“That sounds like a great idea. Is it because you’re trying to get him in bed?”

“Maybe like a little, but… not really. I just want to do something nice with him.”

There’s a pause. “So let me see if I have all the facts here. Number one, you took a training course with this guy and made friends with him. Number two you’ve now gone on exactly two dates. Number three your third date is something that’s supposed to just be super romantic and you don’t even care if you get to bang him or not. God, Brad, you’re in love with this French guy already. You’ve barely spent any time with him but you’re already head over heels.”

That’s not the most horrible thing in Brad’s book, but it does make him nervous. “You think so?”

“It sure sounds like it from where I’m standing. You’ve never asked me to help you not screw up before, just advice how to deal with the screw-ups after the fact, so that’s a pretty big sign I think. Do you know what this means?”

“What?” Brad asks, scared of the answer.

“All of us are going to make fun of you as often as we can because your boyfriend is French.”

“But - ugh, whatever. I actually have to go eat now. Try not to be so fucking mean to me all the time, Melissa.”

“You’re my little brother, that means you get made fun of at any opportunity. Now go have dinner. I love you, Bradley.”

“Love you too. Bye.”

* * *

Patrice is really scared, now. Brad told him to dress “casually nice,” which means he’s in a button shirt with the top one undone and his best pair of jeans. Apparently that was the right choice, because it’s how Brad dressed, too. Sitting in the car, all he can think about is that it’s been almost two weeks and Brad hasn’t said anything about sex except to make jokes. Surely that’s what’s coming tonight, and he’s not sure if he’s ready to out himself just yet.

“Hey, uh, can I ask about something?” Brad’s voice, weirdly unsure sounding, pokes an access hole through his thoughts. “It kinda seemed like something was bothering you at the ice rink when we went out. Like if you don’t want to talk about it that’s okay, but. I just wondered if there’s anything I can help with.”

“Oh, that.” Well… moment of truth. One of many, possibly, or this could be an automatic deal-breaker. “I was just thinking about how I managed to wall myself off really well from everyone, how I have work friends but no friends outside of work, and also everything with my family and not being out to them. I have anxiety and some depression symptoms, and usually it’s kept in check with a medication I take, but sometimes I get upset about something and I have a hard time keeping it in. Most of the time it’s under control, though. Consequences of not being out to your family, it makes you anxious.”

“Huh, okay. My sister Rebecca had postpartum depression after my niece was born, she had to take meds for it for a little bit but it went away eventually. I don’t want to like, make you anxious, though. So if I do something that bugs you, just tell me and I’ll stop.”

So, not an instant deal-breaker. Brad is completely fine with the major issue he’s just detailed. Patrice is starting to wonder when the other shoe will drop, but he also wants to just enjoy this while he can.

“You don’t upset me,” Patrice informs him. “Just… if you see me randomly sitting and crying sometimes, you should know that it’s got nothing to do with you. It just happens.”

“Okay. So like if I do find you like that, do you want me to talk you through it or leave you alone or what? What’s the most helpful thing I can do?”

“Probably just a hug. I don’t get enough hugs.”

“Shit, Bergy, why didn’t you say so before? I give so many hugs all the time, I can smother you in hugs if you want.”

Patrice smiles. “Maybe not smother, but I won’t object if you’re offering them every so often.”

“Great,” Brad grins. “People have told me before that my hugs are like, the highest quality money can buy, so hopefully you’re not disappointed.”

“I’m just glad you’re okay with this, a lot of people aren’t.”

“Well, they’re assholes and they’re not worth your time. It’s pretty hard to discourage me or whatever. Unless you do something really horrible like kill people for food or torture animals or shit like that, I’m probably cool with you doing your thing, okay? I just want to get that out there. Like you look kind of nervous whenever I’ve said anything about sex, and. If you’re asexual or something, I don’t mind. We don’t have to have sex ever if you don’t want.”

“I’m not asexual,” Patrice answers. “But thank you, that really does make me feel better. Uh, the thing is… so I told you I have a… medical problem. But it’s not obvious. It’s covered by my clothes and I’m just… really self-conscious of it, so it kind of takes me a little while to be okay with other people seeing it. It’s not you, Brad, you’re… you’re so great, and sometime I’ll be alright with it, I just… it’s not something I like people seeing. I don’t like being reminded of it.”

“Hey, that’s totally fine. However much time you need, you got it. Thanks for telling me, though. I thought I was making you uncomfortable.”

“Most interpersonal conflict is from miscommunication.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I think we just avoided a giant, horrible misunderstanding.”

“Oh. Awesome. I’m totally cool avoiding giant horrible misunderstandings.”

Patrice is so torn. Brad’s been okay with everything Patrice has thrown at him so far, even the vague parameters of his equally vague mental illness. By that logic it stands to reason that Brad would also be okay with knowing Patrice is trans. On the other hand, it’s happened before that someone Patrice really liked thought they could be okay with it but in the end they just weren’t, and he’s scared he’ll get burned again. Besides all of that, it’s been such a long time since Patrice got to connect with someone like this, and Brad’s… something else. There’s something so special about him, and if asked Patrice doesn’t think he could put a word to it; all he knows is that he really likes it, whatever it is. So maybe he should just not tell Brad at all, let things naturally run their course…

No. Patrice is a lot of things, but he’s not dishonest, and that would be a terrible option to go with, tempting though it is. He’ll just wait a little longer, plan how he’ll break this news to Brad. Things are always better with a plan in place.

“You okay over there, Bergy?”

“Huh?”

“You just zoned out for like ten minutes straight.”

“Sorry, I was just thinking about something. Wait, are we going all the way into Boston?”

“Yeah, we are. I was just thinking - because our first two dates weren’t - I wanted to do something nice,” Brad stammers. “Like really nice. Because I like you. A lot. I know I already said that but I have to say it again because it’s stupid how much I like you, Bergy, it’s really stupid. You’re just so amazing and everything, so I wanted to actually do something romantic and shit. Because you deserve it. I want to do nice things for you.”

“Wow, Brad, that’s… thank you. I really appreciate it and I’m flattered.”

“Oh also, before I forget, the guys still don’t think you’re real. They think I photoshopped you into the picture because according to Pasta there’s no way in hell I got someone that good-looking to go out with me.”

They both laugh and Patrice relaxes. “Someday I’ll have to meet your friends in person, then you can prove I actually exist.”

“That’s a great idea,” Brad agrees. “Actually… so like, the week before Christmas we all go play a hockey game together. You can come with me and watch, it’ll be a really good way for you to meet everyone. It’s not a real hockey game, nobody has pads except Tuuks and Jaro because they’re our goalies, but we have jerseys with the station crest on the front and our names and everything.”

“That sounds like a lot of fun.”

“It’s so much fun, I’d love to have you there.”

“Alright, then I’ll go,” Patrice smiles. “Is it just a hockey game or do you do other stuff, too?”

“It’s a big production. This tradition started like, way before I even got there. But the shift I’m on always has this hockey game, every year. Sometimes we do presents, but the goal is to give someone the worst thing you can find, and to keep everyone from cheating we put our names into a helmet and each pick one. The game happens in the morning, then we’ll go back to the station and grill steaks for lunch.”

“You _grill steaks_ in December.”

“Yup! The rule is we have to share the steaks with the shift that’s actually on-duty that day, but it’s not a problem. Then after that we’ll usually go someplace and get trashed.”

“So what if you had a new fireman who doesn’t know how to skate?” Patrice wonders.

“We make him start learning how as soon as he shows up,” Brad grins. “If it’s summer, then we’ll bring him rollerblading instead. It’s mostly the same thing.”

* * *

“Bro, admit he’s not real already!” Pasta insists as they’re shucking their turnout gear.

“Fuck off, Pasta, he is real and I’m gonna prove it,” Brad insists, throwing one of his gloves at his friend. “He’s going to come watch our game next month and eat steaks with us.”

“Sure, man. And then you’ll be all like, ‘oh, he has the flu and can’t come after all!’ Sad, Marchy.” Pasta shakes his head and clicks his tongue.

“You’re an asshole.”

“You love me.”

“Enough, you two,” Krej interrupts. “Bradley, it’s your month to inspect the utility ropes. David, you’re on lunch duty.”

Both of them groan as they pile their things into the wall cubbies. Brad puts his shoes back on before going over to the rope storage, looking at which ones need to be inspected before grabbing the checklist. It’s not a difficult task, but it is a boring one. He’s gotten three done and is working on the fourth when his phone starts buzzing in his pocket. He answers it without looking. “Marchand.”

“Hey it’s me, are you busy?”

“Oh, hi, Bergy. Nah, I’m just doing a really annoying thing while I wait for lunch. What’s up?”

“Uh… so I wasn’t thinking very carefully about things when I invited you to come to my place, because… I don’t know how to cook. Not even a little. So this is going to just be us immediately leaving my apartment to go get takeout.”

“Oh, don’t worry about it, I’ll bring something,” Brad offers. Then a light turns on in his brain. “Hey, can you do something for me?”

“Sure, what?”

Brad explains and two minutes later is walking into the kitchen holding his phone over his head. “Alright! I have proof! Bergy, you’re on speaker, say hi to the guys!”

“Uh, hi everyone, I’m Patrice… I’ll get to meet you all next month for your hockey game, but this way you can stop torturing Brad because now you know that I do in fact exist.”

“Marchy won’t shut up about how pretty you are, is he telling the truth?” Pasta demands with a huge grin.

“Well, I don’t know about pretty, I’m alright looking I guess. He seems to like how I look.”

“Okay, so we know it’s not just pre-recorded,” Charlie C. remarks.

“I hate all of you,” Brad declares when they start laughing. “Especially you, Pasta, you dick!”

“Oh be nice,” Patrice chuckles. “They’re probably just looking out for you.”

“He’s trying to make you be nice to us? I like this guy already!” Sean comments.

“Okay, this was clearly a huge mistake, so I’m taking you off speaker now,” Brad decides. He leaves the kitchen and puts the phone up to his ear again. “You still there?”

“Yes… your friends seem great, Brad.”

“They’re awful, but I love them anyway for some fucking reason. Thanks for that, though.”

“You’re welcome… I actually have to go, my break’s almost over. I’m glad I could help.”

“Okay, then. I’ll bring something for dinner like I said, you’re not picky, right?”

“Not usually. See you then.”

“Yeah, later.”

* * *

Patrice runs around like a crazy person trying to tidy his apartment the second he gets home from work. God, he’s such a slob, there’s energy drink cans on his counter and _why_ is a pair of _underwear_ sticking out from under the _couch?!_ He tries desperately to straighten everything up, piling his laundry into the hamper in his bedroom and even then arranging it carefully. The boxers he lays around in at home aren’t a problem, but the packing underwear that he puts on to go outside the apartment needs to be hidden at the bottom. On the outside they look like any other pairs of boxer briefs, but Patrice isn’t taking that chance. He empties his bathroom trash, too, so that the empty packets from his testosterone gel aren’t just sitting there for Brad to potentially notice.

When Brad finally does arrive, Patrice’s apartment is looking much more reasonable. “Hey, I brought food.” He takes off his wet jacket and kisses Patrice’s cheek on the way by. “I didn’t have time to cook anything so I just brought McDonald’s, there’s a Double Quarter Pounder and a Big Mac, your choice.”

“I’ll take the Big Mac,” Patrice decides.

They sit on his couch and start scrolling through Netflix, unpacking the food onto the coffee table. Patrice realizes he’s still in his work clothes when he looks down and sees his tie.

“It’s too bad,” Brad sighs when Patrice is untying it.

“What?”

“I like how you look wearing that.”

“Do you want me to leave it on?”

“Nah, it’s okay. You should get to be comfortable, it’s your place after all. Go put on whatever you relax in.”

Right, Brad’s in jeans and a sweatshirt. Patrice has really no reason to be dressed up still. He goes into his room and throws on sweats and a shirt, fiddling with his underwear so that his dick is centered before going back out. Brad looks like he could start drooling.

“Okay, so I just realized it doesn’t matter like at all what you’re wearing, you’re just always that good looking.”

Patrice laughs. “If you say so.” Brad leans on Patrice’s shoulder with his head tilted all the way back, so Patrice feeds him a french fry and they both giggle like idiots for a second before finally going after their food. “So did your friends keep making fun of you after I called?”

“A little, it’s not a big deal. I chirp them for all kinds of things anyway, so I more than earned it,” Brad grins.

They scroll through Netflix some more as they eat, finding nothing in particular that jumps out and grabs them. Eventually they settle for watching Futurama from the beginning, because they’ve both seen most of the episodes so they don’t really have to pay attention as much when they’d obviously rather be interacting instead.

“Does your fire station do a big Thanksgiving thing?” Patrice asks.

“Yeah, but it’s mostly because they’re kind of obligated to… I’ve been here for years now and it still seems just a little weird that Thanksgiving is in November in this ass-backwards country.”

“So what do you do for Thanksgiving?”

“Play hockey, usually. There could be a pick-up game if I’m really lucky. Or work. My shift might be on. What do you do?”

“Call my family and pretend to be straight,” Patrice jokes, even though it’s not funny. “But I was thinking I could just hang out with you this year if you’re not at work.”

“Yeah, I’d love that, we can go out and get Chinese food or something and then watch the Black Friday riots on YouTube.”

“You’d love that, huh?” Patrice teases. “Do you find me lovable, Brad?”

“Oh hell yeah,” Brad grins, snuggling right up to him on the couch. “Like a kitten or a stuffed animal or something, it’s just so cute and there’s no way you can hate it.”

Apparently Patrice is a kitten, then. It’s kind of funny to think about, because Brad reminds him so much of a puppy - bouncing around, loud, impossible to predict but just so damn adorable both because of and in spite of those things. He wants to verbalize that thought, but chooses not to, because at the moment he’d much rather kiss Brad instead.

It’s not supposed to turn into a thing, because there’s been a couple cheek kisses or forehead kisses by now but this is the first time they’re kissing each other. But then Brad’s hand is on the back of his neck and they’re opening their mouths, and god it’s been such a long time since Patrice has been kissed like this. Something must’ve clicked between their brains, because there’s virtually no fumbling as they rearrange so that Brad’s lying back. Warm hands slide into his shirt, rubbing lightly along his abdomen and then up to his chest. If the noises are anything to go by, Brad’s very pleased with what he finds there, carefully maintained muscle under a thin layer of soft hair.

Patrice braces himself on one elbow so that his whole weight won’t be on Brad and uses the other hand to feel around in a similar fashion. Brad makes up for his height by being stacked, which isn’t terribly surprising considering it’s his job to drag people out of burning buildings and wrecked cars. There’s layer after layer of strength to be found under that shirt, and Patrice likes all of it. He likes everything about Brad.

Then Brad leans back slightly, breaking the kiss. “Wait, I know you have a thing about this…”

“Yeah, but that ‘thing’ is only about me, not you,” Patrice smiles, resisting the urge to cry instead out of sheer relief. “I know I’ve already said this, but you’re just so great…” He starts offering kisses between sentences. “…you don’t care how weird I am…” Kiss. “…you’re always so nice to me, and patient…” Kiss. “…you don’t care that I’m weird about sex.” Kiss. He makes sure he’s got eye contact. “Let me make it up to you?” He asks quietly, gently. He wants it to be Brad’s choice.

And Brad immediately nods so hard Patrice is concerned his head will come detached from his neck. “Yes, _yes,_ oh my god…”

Which means Patrice now sucking off his… okay, yeah, new boyfriend… on his couch. He likes to do this, he’s good at it and it’s so oddly satisfying. Especially now with Brad. He really, really likes Brad. A lot. He likes seeing Brad happy. It stands to reason that he likes to make Brad feel good. This image will visit Patrice later, how Brad looks squirming in pleasure and then how Brad looks when he comes. It’s so satisfying.

“You… uh… you didn’t have to… do that, y’know,” Brad slurs, head leaned back on the arm of the couch and eyes closed.

“Yeah, I know. I wanted to,” Patrice answers, pushing up his shirt just enough to kiss the spot under his belly button. “I’m going to go brush my teeth now, though.”

“Yeah, makes sense… do your thing, big guy…”

Scrubbing his mouth with about four times as much toothpaste as he would normally use, Patrice rationalizes to himself - they’ve been seeing each other for a couple weeks now, they’re adults. He’s jumped into bed with guys quicker than this, anyway. (Like Trevor. Look how that turned out.) But in the back of his head, he still remembers what his mother said when he was a kid, how people that just run around sleeping with everyone have no self-respect so they’re trying to fill the gap with something. Patrice tries to silence that thought. He does have self-respect, and the gap he has is the hole where his family’s unconditional love would be if only they wouldn’t freak out on discovering he’s gay. This had nothing to do with being empty on the inside, because he’s not and he never has been.

Patrice goes back into the living room and kisses Brad again, ultimately laying down with his ear to Brad’s sternum. “Thank you.”

“No, thank _you,_ ” Brad laughs. “I was like not expecting that to go anywhere.”

“You have a really nice dick, by the way.” Patrice isn’t jealous, not at all. (Normally, sleeping with cis guys, he’s actually not jealous. But he meant it, Brad just has a really nice dick.)

Brad laughs harder at that and plays with his hair. “That’s the best compliment I’ve heard all month.” Then his arms go around Patrice’s shoulders. “So like, I know you said it’ll be a little bit until you’re comfortable letting me see whatever it is you’ve got going on. I want you to know I’m still cool with that. Once you’re okay with it, just keep in mind I’m an emergency responder, okay? I’ve seen way scarier things than you.”

“Thanks, Brad.”

* * *

“It’s long on me,” Brad comments, shoving the sleeves up off his hands. “And the shoulders are a little tight.”

Patrice chuckles and gives his usual charming smile. “It looks alright on you, though. I like you in my clothes.”

Brad snorts and takes off the coat, hanging it back up on its hook by the door. He has an ulterior motive for wearing the coat, but his boyfriend doesn’t need to know that. “Hey so… I may have to ask you for something kind of important.”

“Sure, babe, what is it?”

“Two weeks from now, can you play hockey with us instead of just watching? Charlie broke his leg so we need a center. The ceiling in a room collapsed on him. He’ll be okay in a couple months, but now we’re missing a player.”

Patrice looks really surprised. “I guess I can try, I make no promises that I’ll still be any good, though.”

“You’ll do fine, it’s just for fun. This way we won’t have to make Krej sit out, too, since the teams will be even.”

“Okay,” Patrice agrees. “It’s been more than nine years since I’ve played, but I’ll do my best.” Then Patrice’s phone rings. He pulls it out of his pocket and turns white. “Oh, shit, it’s Guillaume. Give me a few minutes?”

Brad just nods and sits on the couch, understanding exactly nothing of what’s being said given that it’s in French. Words aside, though, he can tell that his boyfriend is in a state of extreme discomfort but trying to pretend otherwise. Brad wonders if Patrice has just been asked whether he has a girlfriend. He knows that’s a common question, so it would make sense. Or maybe it’s about whatever “medical problem” Patrice still doesn’t feel comfortable discussing. Brad’s starting to think he knows what that is, actually. He’s not completely sure, but he has a going theory.

When the conversation finally ends, Patrice sits on the other side of the couch and covers his face with his hands. “I’m such an idiot.”

“You’re not,” Brad argues, pulling him over into a hug and stroking his soft, dark hair. “What happened?”

“He asked if I’m seeing anyone and I said yes. ‘Great! Bring her over for New Years!’ What the hell am I going to do?”

“Tell them I got sick and couldn’t come?” Brad shrugs. “There’s a pretty bad stomach flu going around the last few weeks, just say I’ve been puking my guts up.”

“No, they’ll shame me for not taking care of you while you’re sick.” Patrice curls in against Brad’s chest. “Maybe I’ll just go empty-handed and say I broke up with this fictional girlfriend.”

“That’d probably be easiest,” Brad agrees. “Oh, also, not to change the subject but it’s going to be complete chaos when we go see my family for Christmas, they’re all dying to meet you and things will be insane. If it gets to be too much we can leave early.”

“That’s okay.” Patrice heaves a sigh. “You know what?”

“What?”

“I’m twenty seven years old, I shouldn’t have to keep pretending. When I go see them on New Years they’re going to hear the truth. If they don’t like it that’s on them, and… if they really don’t like it, maybe I’m better off without that kind of pressure.”

“If you’re sure that’s what you want, then you should totally do that,” Brad agrees. “I might be able to go with you, if you want. I have enough seniority by now.”

“Yes, please. I think it’ll really help, they won’t be able to say I’m just confused or anything. I’d love to have you there with me.”

“Alright, I’ll talk to Z and Bruce about it tomorrow during my shift. They’re good guys, so they’ll probably understand why I need to do this.”

Patrice leans up a little and kisses the side of his jaw. “Thanks, Brad, you’re the best.”

Brad grins and hugs him closer. “Whatever you say, Pat. So do you shoot right or left?”

“Right.”

“Okay. Just because you’re going to have to borrow a stick, so I need to see if Charlie’s will work for you, that’s all.”

* * *

Patrice decides, as he’s getting dressed that morning, to wear a jockstrap for this hockey game. Not for any real practical reason the way cis men wear jockstraps for sports, but because this is the same principle as wearing it to the gym - it keeps his dick where he wants it. Packing underwear is great but sometimes even if he’s just sitting around at work things start to slide out of place, and he hates that. Over the jockstrap goes a pair of boxers so that his jeans won’t chafe his skin while he’s playing, and then he’s trying to pick a sweatshirt when the knock comes. Brad’s early.

“That’s a nice look on you,” his boyfriend grins when he answers the door in his undershirt and no pants.

“Too bad, I’m not playing hockey like this,” Patrice replies before briefly kissing him. Then he notices how Brad’s hands are behind his back. “What’re you up to?”

Brad gives a huge smile. “Christmas presents. But you have to open them now.” He hands over two oddly-shaped and badly wrapped packages, wound with miles of tape.

“Can I put pants on first?”

“If you have to.”

Patrice yanks on his jeans and goes back into the living room while zipping them up. “Okay, I wasn’t expecting presents, so should I be nervous?”

“Nope. If they don’t fit I’m the one who’s out a hundred and fifty bucks, so I’m way more nervous about it than you,” Brad grins.

Curious now, Patrice tears open the bulkier one and finds a pair of black hockey gloves tied together with fishing line (probably to make them easier to wrap, he reasons). They fit perfectly. Setting them on his coffee table, he rips the paper off the second one to find a white and gold jersey with the logo of Brad’s fire department on the front. On the back is his name and the number 37 in bright red lettering.

“Why this number?” he asks.

“So this is kind of dumb, but. My number is 63, it’s the number I wore in high school, and sixty three plus thirty seven is a hundred. So that’s why I picked it. Everyone laughed at me for it. You can laugh too if you want, it’s pretty stupid.”

“That’s not stupid, it’s adorable,” Patrice grins. He tosses the wrapping paper aside and pulls the jersey on over his undershirt. “Babe, I love this, thank you so much.”

“I got you a stick, too, but that’s in the back of my truck because even if I wrapped it it’d be too obvious,” Brad confesses. “Remember how you were taking a nap on my couch a few days ago, and then you woke up because I bumped the end of your nose? I was seeing how long your stick would have to be.”

“Oh, really? I was wondering why you were standing over me with a tape measure, I thought you were going to get a new couch and you were seeing how big your current one was or something.”

“Nope, it was for your stick. I taped it for you, I hope that’s okay. I know everyone does it different but there wouldn’t really be time for you to do it yourself. I waxed the blade, too.”

“Yeah, that’s fine. Let me grab my skates.”

Going to the rink and meeting Brad’s friends is an experience. Many of them are rambunctious goofballs just like his boyfriend, but they’re all really nice guys and were excited to finally see him in person.

“So we just need to know: what do you even see in this dumbass?” Pasta asks, hooking an arm around Brad’s neck and getting him into a headlock.

“A lot of things, he’s a great boyfriend,” Patrice answers mildly. Then he grins. “Besides, he actually knows how to cook, so…”

“Ah, look at that, Marchy! He’s just using you for food!” Charlie M. shouts from where he’s tying his skates.

“Hey, I’m a man of many talents, Pat’s just appreciating me for them,” Brad shoots back, finally getting free and shoving Pasta away. He straightens out his jersey. “It’s okay to be jealous, you know. You’ll never be as amazing as I am, Chuckie, but that’s alright, I’m sure someday you’ll meet a girl who’s desperate enough to settle for you.”

Charlie M. just flips Brad off instead of replying. Despite all the hostile words being thrown around, Patrice definitely gets the feeling that Brad’s descriptions were right on the money - these guys aren’t just a team, they’re a family and they love each other. Patrice is meeting part of Brad’s family right now.

Two more guys come into the rink then - a ridiculously tall one who must be the shift captain, and one limping on crutches that Patrice is replacing in the lineup. Both come over to shake his hand.

“It’s nice to meet you,” Z smiles. “Bradley talks about you to us all the time.”

“Yeah, I got that,” Patrice chuckles. “He’s got some good stories about you guys.”

“Good stories? Like, are they actually good or are they just funny because they’re inappropriate?” Charlie C. wonders.

“Mix of both,” Patrice shrugs. “I’m sorry you’re not able to play, Brad said this game is a big deal for you guys.”

“Ah, don’t worry about it,” he answers, waving it off. “I still get steak after. Besides, he’s really excited to have you play with him. We all wanted to chip in for your jersey, but he insisted on paying for the whole thing himself.”

“You did?” Patrice is really surprised to hear that. “But none of you have even seen me until today.”

“Sure. If Brad loves you, then we love you, too. It was important to him, so we finally gave up and let him pay for it himself. Besides, he never shuts up about you, so we all pretty much know you by now anyway.”

Patrice sits down and pulls on his skates after that. His new gloves feel good on his hands and he plays with his stick for a second, testing the flex, before stepping onto the ice and doing a couple laps. Danton and Sean are both out there having a shoving match by the far goal, and ultimately neither of them wins because when Sean starts to fall he yanks Danton down after him. Patrice is rapidly getting the idea that every single member of this fire department is an agent of chaos.

“Get a room, you two!” Brad yells, jabbing the tangle with the blade of his stick before gliding over to Patrice. “They should really just date each other, they’re always like this. If you ever need to find Goose you just look for Danny.”

“Your goalies just showed up,” Patrice informs him, pointing to the glass. “Which one is which?”

“Tuuks is the mean-looking one, but he’s actually pretty chill most of the time. They both are, really. Jaro won’t throw things at you, though. Tuuks has been known to throw things.”

The goalies are the only ones with pads, just like Brad said. Everyone has gloves, but that’s the extent to which the skaters are protected. Patrice feels like they should at least wear helmets, but apparently that’s not a priority.

“So who are we playing with?” he asks, doing another lap with Brad.

“Pasta and Z, Jaro’s our goalie. Krej, Chuckie, Danny and Goose have Tuuks. Bruce always comes too even though he’s not shift-specific, he refs for us.”

After a couple minutes, the last two guys finally both show up, so Patrice goes over to shake hands with them like he did everyone else, tapping gloves with Tuukka and Jaroslav on his way by.

“I’m sure at least six other people have said this already, but Brad talks about you all the time,” Krej smiles, clapping him on the shoulder.

“I think everyone’s said that to me,” Patrice chuckles, nodding. “I’m sure I’ll hear it again when I go meet his family next week.”

“You should know, you’ve been really good for him. The guys were setting him up on dates for awhile and those never worked out, obviously, and his last boyfriend before that was… not always the best thing for him. I wasn’t sad when Tyler moved to Dallas, honestly. But you help him a lot, I think. He’s way less anxious than he used to be just a few weeks ago.”

Brad has anxiety problems? Patrice never would’ve guessed. He smiles. “Well, I’m glad to hear it, he’s good for me too. The way all your guys talk you’d think I’m the one putting up with his crap, but it’s actually the other way around most of the time.”

“I’m not sure I believe that,” Krej laughs, slapping his shoulder lightly again.

Everyone piles onto the ice after that. Patrice looks around - the three numbers he’s passing to are 33, 63, and 88. It shouldn’t be too hard to remember. His breaths are quivering a little and his mouth is dry, it’s been almost a decade since he’s stood on a faceoff dot and he’s sure he’ll screw up. Then the puck drops, he wins it, and Pasta is running up the ice with it. Patrice charges ahead as well, beyond surprised that he actually remembers how to play hockey. He also somehow managed to forget how much he loves it until just this moment. But he does love it, maybe even more so now than he did in school, because this is pressure-free and he can also see how much his boyfriend loves it. Patrice doesn’t think he’ll ever feel nervous about playing hockey with Brad again.

* * *

Brad keeps his hands behind his back as he goes over to Patrice, who looks beyond sick of waiting. This time, though, it’s not a nice surprise he’s hiding. “So, you want the good news or the bad news first?” he asks.

“Either.”

Brad sighs and holds out his broken wrist, now covered in a cast. “The good news is I’ll definitely have free time to go to Quebec with you for New Years…”

“God, babe, how bad is it?”

“Not a complex break, the cast comes off in eight weeks and then probably some physical therapy before I can go back to work. It doesn’t hurt that bad… mostly I’m just pissed that it’s my left, I do everything with this hand. I’d probably be like, 30% as crippled if I fell on my right arm instead.”

Patrice shakes his head and lightly runs his fingers along Brad’s busted wrist. “Alright… why don’t we grab some clothes from your place and you can stay with me for the next couple of days until we go to Halifax, then I can help take care of you and I won’t be worrying myself to death.”

“Won’t I be like invading your space?”

“Of course not, why would you say that? Here, give me your keys.” They leave the emergency department and head for Brad’s truck - Patrice has to adjust the seat back to fit his longer legs when they get in. “I grabbed your skates and everything on the way out, they’re in the back seat.”

“Thanks, baby. You did really good out there, you’re way better than you thought you’d be, eh?”

“Yeah, I guess so,” Patrice smiles. “You’re great at it, though. I don’t know how you couldn’t get a scholarship.”

“There were other guys who were better than me, I guess,” Brad shrugs. “It’s okay, I love my job. Besides, if I did end up being a hockey player, I probably never would’ve met you and that’s just unbearable to think about, so it all works out in the end.”

Patrice nods and rests his palm on Brad’s cast. “Yeah, I guess it does… but don’t you think you would’ve been happier if you’d gotten into the AHL or the NHL or something?”

“Maybe, but I don’t care anymore,” Brad insists. “I’ve got you instead.”

When they come to a stoplight, Brad notices Patrice rubbing his eyes… he’s crying. Brad made him cry.

“Sorry,” Patrice mutters, shaking his head a little. “That’s really nice of you, Brad, thank you.”

“Don’t be sorry, Pat, I’m the one who made you cry. I just wish you’d stop being surprised when I say things like that, okay? It’s like you think you’re unlovable or something, it bugs me a lot. You’re lovable, okay?” After he says that, Patrice starts frantically wiping his eyes. “Pat… baby, this isn’t safe, pull over for a minute okay?”

They park on the side of a street right in front of a **NO PARKING ANY TIME** sign, but Brad doesn’t care. He unbuckles and leans across the center console to hug his boyfriend, who’s hiccupping now and immediately hides his face in Brad’s neck.

“I’m sorry,” Patrice whimpers. “I’m sorry I’m like this.”

“Shhh, it’s okay,” Brad soothes. “You’ve got nothing to be sorry for, Pat, I promise. It just seems like you don’t like yourself very much sometimes, but I wish you did. I wish you can see yourself how I see you, because then you’d know how lovable you are.”

“I don’t hate myself,” Patrice mumbles wetly against his skin. “I just hate the stupid things I do sometimes, that’s all. It’s embarrassing.”

“Trust me, I do way stupider shit than you on a regular basis,” Brad assures him, rubbing his back. “I didn’t mean to get you all upset.”

“I know you didn’t, this just happens,” Patrice answers, voice slightly steadier this time.

“It’s okay,” Brad tells him a second time, kissing the spot next to his ear.

Once Patrice has a hold of things again, they drive the rest of the way to Brad’s apartment to grab him some clothes and his laptop. His hockey stuff is dropped off as well, and then they head for Patrice’s place. It’s a crime against nature that Patrice finally takes off his jersey, because hockey jerseys just look absurdly good on him. Brad already knows he’s going to start fantasizing about his boyfriend fucking him wearing that jersey.

He soon finds out that using the bathroom is a little bit challenging while wearing a cast, mainly the aspect of hand-washing because he isn’t supposed to get the damn thing wet. As he’s carefully soaping the exposed parts of his hand, Brad happens to look down to the left and see the garbage can - morbid curiosity has him leaning down to inspect the medical-looking wrapper stuck to the side. It’s a white and blue generic prescription packet: TESTOSTERONE GEL 1%.

And there it is.

Brad smiles looking at it, because this is exactly what he thought. He honestly would’ve been a lot more surprised to discover that Patrice _wasn’t_ trans, and even though he has to wonder about the lack of chest scars he feels so much better finally understanding why his boyfriend is always so anxious about the idea of sex. He dries his hands and thinks - what’s a good way to bring this up? How can he let Patrice know it’s okay? Brad doesn’t want to scare him, after all.

“Hey Pat?” he calls when he opens the bathroom door.

“I’m in the kitchen, babe.”

“Hey, so, when did you find out you’re gay? Tell me about your first boyfriend,” Brad asks, sitting at the table and watching Patrice place an order for Domino’s over the internet.

“His name was Liam. He was in my class during 8th grade, and he played lacrosse instead of hockey. We made friends, then started going to each other’s games. On the last day of school he pulled me into the bathroom, into one of the stalls. I guess that way nobody would see us, but they probably would’ve thought something was up because there was two pairs of legs under the door. Anyway, he took out a pen and wrote his phone number on my arm, and then he kissed me and told him to call all the time during the summer, and I did. Then one night my brother almost caught me, and I got scared, so I broke up with him. I still feel a little bad about it. He didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Hm.” Brad nods. “Like, it was kind of a weird experience for me. I was fifteen, and first I had a girlfriend… or at least I thought I did. It was kind of more complicated than that. Because one time my ‘girlfriend’ was sitting on my bed, watching me do… something, I don’t remember what. Started crying. I asked what’s wrong, and the answer’s ‘Brad, I really like you but I wish I was a boy. But if I was a boy I know you wouldn’t still date me.’ I told him I would, like without even thinking about it, and asked him why he wanted to be a boy instead. So then he explained a bunch of shit, and I had this weird feeling like I would actually like him better as a boy than as a girl. So then I put one of my sweatshirts on him. ‘There, you can be a boy for me if you want.’ So like. My first boyfriend was trans. And that’s how I figured out I’m gay. I just, uh, I just wanted you to hear that story because. Like. I saw one of your gel packets in the trash by the sink, and I wanted you to know it’s okay. I kind of figured it out before that, but just now I saw it and that’s how I knew for sure. Like I said, though, I just really want you to know that it’s okay.”

Patrice stares at him blankly for a solid twenty seconds, then chokes out “How are you even real?” and bursts into tears.

Brad gets up from the table and pulls his boyfriend into the must secure, grade-A hug he can manage. Patrice grabs on like he’ll sink into the floor otherwise, sobbing uncontrollably against Brad’s shoulder and shaking hard enough to make a Richter Scale go off.

“Pat,” he murmurs, “I know you probably aren’t comfortable with some things about yourself, but you should know that there’s nothing about you I’m uncomfortable with. Not even a little bit. If there’s anything, ever, that I can do to help just tell me, okay? And even if there’s nothing, I… I love you just the way you are.”

Patrice is still crying really hard, but he nods. “You can keep hugging me,” he wavers.

Brad grins and squeezes tighter. “You got it.”

* * *

“Are they going to immediately throw us both out when you tell them?” Brad asks from the passenger seat of Patrice’s Tacoma.

“I don’t think so. I hope not. Either way, we can expect them to not like it, which is why we’re going to stay in a motel instead if things go south. I have money put aside for that, then we won’t just have to drive all the way back to Massachusetts without sleeping.”

“If your family ends up being dicks about this, you can share mine,” Brad offers. “They all love you and so do I.”

“I know, I love you too and I love your family right back,” Patrice smiles.

And it’s true; he does love Brad’s family. They’re all overly-energetic like him, but in the same endearing way that demands lots of hugs and inappropriate stories told loudly over beer. They’d said the same thing that Brad’s friends in the fire department did: “If Brad loves you, then so do we.”

Pulling into the driveway, Patrice feels like he swallowed an overfilled biohazard box from the hospital and the weight of it is sitting directly on top of his guts. They only let him transition as a kid because they thought it would “make him straight.” Now he gets to find out whether they’ll be even remotely okay with learning how untrue that is.

It’s Guillaume who opens when Patrice knocks, and Brad following him in is met with confused but polite smiles.

“So where’s your girlfriend? You said you have one finally,” his brother prods.

“We have a second guest room for your friend to stay in,” his mother offers before he can even answer.

“Uh… well, first of all, I didn’t… I didn’t actually say I had a girlfriend, you asked if I was seeing someone and I said yes. You assumed it was a woman. But… I don’t date women. I actually never have. This is… this is Brad. He’s my boyfriend. I met him during my hazmat course for the hospital and we made friends, then we ran into each other again a little less than two months ago and we’ve been seeing each other since then.”

Brad, for once, doesn’t say a word, just waves at them a little awkwardly with his cast.

“So does this mean you’ve changed your mind and you’re going to go back to being a girl?” his father asks, in French now.

Patrice is horrified by that idea. “No! Why would you - no! I thought you understood how this works, I’m male and I always have been.”

“But you’re now dating a man.”

“Yes, because I’m gay,” Patrice can’t stop himself from shouting.

Somehow, it’s a lot worse that his parents aren’t angry - they look disappointed in him.

“But when you were six, you took a girl to us and said she was your girlfriend,” his mother argues. “You made us believe you’re attracted to girls.”

“I know, and I only did that because I thought that’s what boys were supposed to do. I thought I could prove I was a boy by having a girlfriend. But it doesn’t quite work that way. I’m not interested in women. I never have been. I didn’t say anything until now because I knew you would hate me for it.”

He waits for them to scramble, to say “of course we don’t hate you,” but it never comes. His mother looks at his father. “Perhaps we should’ve talked to more than one doctor about him.”

His father looks at him, then. “What did we do wrong?”

“What?”

“What did we do wrong?” his father repeats. “What did we do that made you like this?”

Patrice wants to throw up. “Nothing, I just am this way. Why is it so terrible for me to be gay?”

“It’s not terrible, just… pointless,” his mother answers. “Because now we’ve let you become this way for no reason. If you’re going to have relationships with men, then why would you choose not to be a woman? It doesn’t make sense.”

There’s a shelf next to the kitchen door where he’s standing; he grabs for something off it without looking at what it is and pegs it to the floor, shattering it. “I DIDN’T CHOOSE THIS!” Patrice screams. “NOBODY IN THEIR RIGHT MIND WOULD CHOOSE THIS! DO YOU KNOW HOW HORRIBLE IT IS TO BE TRANS?! ESPECIALLY IN THE COUNTRY WHERE I LIVE RIGHT NOW! I HAVE LESS RIGHTS THAN MOST PEOPLE! IF I MEET THE WRONG GUY HE COULD BEAT ME TO DEATH WITH HIS FISTS BECAUSE I SCARE HIM! IF I HAD A CHOICE, I WOULD _NEVER_ PICK THIS!” He wipes his eyes on his sleeve and sees that the object he threw down was, of all things, a family portrait of the four of them. “I didn’t choose to be this way. Unless you can be okay with that, don’t ever talk to me again. I can’t believe this.”

He turns around without waiting to hear what they have to say in reply and leaves. He knows they won’t change their minds; his parents are too old to learn better and who can say for sure with Guillaume. Patrice sits in his truck, watching Brad emerge and immediately get on the phone with someone while he stews. He thinks he wouldn’t have gotten anywhere near as upset about this if his mother hadn’t asked him The Question, the one he always hears from everyone and is so tired of being asked. Patrice is sick to death of it, why would he choose to be a gay man when he could be a straight woman instead. (Because he’s not a straight woman, he’s a gay man, it really is as simple as that.)

Brad knocks on his window so he opens the door for his boyfriend. “Hey, how about I drive back? My wrist doesn’t really hurt, this way you can just sit and think for a while or take a nap or whatever.”

It’s not the worst idea. Patrice knows how dangerous it is for him to drive when he’s this upset, so he nods without saying anything and gets into the passenger side. He zones out as he wallows in a toxic mix of outrage and self-pity, which is kind of rare for him but honestly he has no idea how else he’s supposed to feel. Probably he could’ve tried to calmly discuss things instead of shouting at his mother like a toddler throwing a fit, but he’d already been psyched up for them to reject him (possibly through a screaming match) and the response he did get was exactly as bad as he’d thought it would be, if not in the same way. He’d been prepared for them to verbally attack him for “lying” about being straight all these years, but his parents’ singular lack of understanding and belief that they could’ve somehow changed him to be “normal” completely blindsided him.

He’s surprised when the truck stops.

Looking at his watch, it’s been over an hour and they’re in a gas station. Brad starts filling the truck, then goes into the convenience store briefly and returns drinking something out of a can. He’s also carrying a second can of whatever it is that he’s drinking; probably soda. Brad gets into the driver’s seat without closing the door and offers an ice cream cone, already unwrapped.

“Thanks, but why?” Patrice asks, accepting it and taking a small lick.

“Because ice cream makes everything better, it’s a scientific fact.”

Patrice manages to chuckle and licks the treat again, bolder this time. He’s not sure what he did to deserve Brad, but whatever it was, he’s glad he did it. He finishes his ice cream just as they’re driving again, and by now the explosion of hurt and anger has finished fading, leaving him wrung out and tired. He rests his head against the inside of the window and closes his eyes for a minute, and when he opens them again it’s because they’re bumping into a driveway. The sun isn’t up yet, in fact it’s not even close - the sky is just barely lightening. Checking his phone, it’s six in the morning and they’re still in Canada. More specifically, they’re in Halifax, Nova Scotia, sitting in Brad’s parents’ driveway.

“Tell me you didn’t just drive ten hours straight,” Patrice yawns, looking over at his idiot boyfriend and trying to be annoyed instead of fond. Judging by Brad’s answering smile, he doesn’t think he succeeds. “Why are we here?”

“Well, you’re still off work for two more days and I’m on paid medical, so why not? Plus this seemed better than going straight home anyway. We can have New Years here. My mom said it was okay. Good morning, by the way.”

“Morning, babe. Oh god, my neck,” Patrice whines when he goes to move and pain spears him there.

They shuffle into the house and are greeted by Brad’s mom, who promptly sits them in the kitchen and stuffs them both with pancakes.

“Bradley Kevin, no hats at the table,” she scolds as he’s reaching for seconds.

“But it hides my stupid face,” Brad grins, sarcastic and tired.

Patrice darts his hand out and grabs the hat by its bill, yanking it off his boyfriend’s head and tossing it over his shoulder without caring where it lands. “Stop saying your face is stupid, Bradley.”

“Oh my god, you’re both going to gang up on me the whole time we’re here, aren’t you?”

“Definitely,” Patrice nods. Then he leans to the side and kisses Brad’s cheek. “As soon as you’re done eating I want you to take a nap, babe.”

“Yeah, okay.”

After pancakes, Brad lays down on the couch in the living room and is snoring within forty seconds. Patrice helps Lynn wash the dishes while she gently forces him to explain what happened with his family.

“I probably could’ve handled it better… actually, I _know_ I could’ve handled it better, but I’m just sick of having to justify my existence to everyone all the time,” Patrice gripes as he dries a plate. “And it’s one thing to come from people I’ve only met as an adult. I thought parents are supposed to love their kids no matter what. When I have kids, I’d never even think about doing this to them.”

The towel and the dish are both pulled out of his hands, and then Lynn is giving him a mom-hug. Brad’s family is so nice.

“Brad’s first boyfriend was trans.”

“I know. He told me that after he found my testosterone in the bathroom.”

“That poor boy’s name was Jimmy. He was usually here with us, because Brad let him be who he was. Then his parents found him out and they moved. Brad sat in the living room and cried for an hour and a half, because he thought it was his fault. I think you might be having a similar problem - you think it’s somehow your fault that your family won’t accept you. Please believe me when I say it’s not, Patrice. This has never been your fault. And you’re also very brave for confronting them about it, no matter how badly you think you did.”

Patrice nods and then can’t stop himself from sniffing in. (Of course he’s starting to cry. At this point probably anything could make Patrice cry.) “I believe you. Thanks.”

“Oh honey, just let it out, it’s like throwing up when you’re sick. It’s going to happen anyway and you’ll feel better after,” she coos, patting his back.

(And Patrice does. Afterwards, he joins his boyfriend on the couch for a morning nap.)

* * *

**Epilogue - 8 Years Later**

“No, you have to really yank on them like this,” Brad repeats for the tenth time.

“I’m trying! It’s too hard, daddy!”

“Alright, we’ll keep working on this some other time, I’ll get it for you now.”

“Brad, he needs to do it himself or else he’ll never learn how,” Patrice insists, finishing up his own skates and sliding closer along the bench since his husband is apparently incapable of not spoiling their son. “Here, grab it right next to where it goes into the skate boot, okay? And then _yank_ it towards you as hard as you can.”

Patrick gives a loud, frustrated groan but thankfully complies. Patrice can see how it’s difficult for a six-year-old to tie his own skates, but it really seems important that he learns to do it now, especially since every time they ask he says he wants to be a hockey player when he grows up. (Patrick Bradley Marchand is a name full of compromises - because when they adopted him, Brad wanted to name him after Patrice and Patrice wanted to name him after Brad, and they kept Brad’s last name mostly to spite Patrice’s estranged family.)

Once the skates are tied, the tiny hockey helmet is strapped to Patrick’s head and they hand him the gloves and stick. He’s all geared up, dwarfed by the pads under a Bruins jersey that really shouldn’t have been bought for him because he’ll just outgrow it by the end of the season (it was a birthday present from his grandparents, though, so Patrice and Brad had no say in it). He looks adorable.

Another little boy comes running over, wearing ski pants and a sweatshirt with his skates. “Why do you got all the stuff, Pat? It’s not fair!” Skylar whines.

“My grammie got me this stuff,” Patrick boasts, waving around his stick and almost smacking his friend by accident.

“Okay, careful,” Patrice intervenes, pushing his son’s arm back down as Skylar’s mother is coming over. “Why don’t you guys go get started, we’ll be out there in a second, okay?”

“My dad can beat up your dad, he’s a fireman!” Patrick yells as they head for the ice.

“Yeah, but my mom can beat up your dad, she’s in the army!” Skylar shouts back.

Two seconds later they’re both wobbling around on the ice while Alyssa shakes hands with Brad and Patrice. The three of them chuckle at their kids’ antics.

“Your son is cute,” Patrice offers.

“You don’t have to be nice, he’s a hellion,” she laughs. “Thanks for having him over, he’s been begging me to have a sleepover with Pat for weeks now.”

“Oh, we know,” Brad grins. “Short Pat’s been going on about it just as long.” At her raised eyebrow, he explains by pointing. “Patrick, Patrice. So we go Short Pat and Tall Pat to keep it simple.”

“Ah. Well, it was nice meeting you both, thanks again.”

They join the boys on the ice a few seconds later, both wearing their fire department jerseys and gloves even though this is a public free skate and not a hockey game. They catch up to Patrick and Skylar in just a few strides, and then Patrice’s phone is ringing in his pocket.

He groans. “It’s probably the hospital, give me two seconds, okay?”

“We’ll be here,” Brad nods.

He gets off the ice again and sits - he doesn’t recognize the number, but answers it anyway because if it’s a robo-call he can at least block it so it can’t call again. “Patrice Marchand, hazardous materials manager.”

“Patrice it’s me,” is the answer in French.

It takes him a second to place the voice. “Guillaume?” His own French kicks in. “What do you want? It’s been almost nine years, somebody better be _dying_ if you’re calling me now.”

“No, nobody’s dying. And… wait, Marchand? You got married?”

“I invited you to my damn wedding! Yes I got married! I have a six-year-old son now, too! What the hell do you want already?”

“I never got an invitation. Uh. I knew you have a son now, actually. I just found out twenty minutes ago. Did you send pictures to our parents? Because they… they were throwing them out. I confronted them about it. They said it wasn’t important, since you said you never want to talk to us again. I didn’t know you tried to contact us after.”

“Yeah, well, I did. I had to send everything to them because I couldn’t remember your address. I invited you to my wedding, I’ve been sending pictures of Patrick, which actually this was the last time I was going to do that anyway, after this there weren’t going to be any more.”

“They never told me,” Guillaume replies quietly. “I didn’t know. I thought you didn’t want to talk to me. Remember how… how you said, back then… you didn’t choose this? I didn’t choose this, either. I wanted to talk to you. I want you and your husband and your son to come visit me and my wife and my kids sometime soon. I want my family to be part of your family’s life. Patrice. You’re still my little brother. I love you.” A pause. “So tell me about your family, if you have time. Is it the guy you brought with you to see us?”

“Yeah. Brad. We were together for about a year and a half before we got married. We adopted Patrick two days after he was born. He’s going to be a hockey player when he grows up. He wants to play for the Bruins. Brad got promoted to shift lieutenant three years ago. I’ve been promoted several times at the hospital. We’re doing well.”

“Good… can you please not be angry with me, now? I swear I didn’t know.”

Patrice sighs. “I’m sorry. You surprised me… we’re actually out skating right now with one of Patrick’s friends, so I have to go, but I can call you back later and we’ll talk more about this.”

“Alright. Well… bye, then.”

“Goodbye.”

Patrice stares at his phone for a moment, then adds _Guillaume_ to his contacts and gets up from the bench so he can go tell his husband what just happened. **  
**

**Author's Note:**

> So I bet you thought at the beginning of the fic that Marchy would be the trans one, right? :D Nope! Everyone always makes Brad be trans, so I made Patrice trans this time because it's more interesting that way.
> 
> The story Bergy tells about the exploding chemical drum is adapted from one of my boyfriend's horror stories when he worked at the hospital as a hazmat guy.
> 
> Please be at least a little forgiving of me with the trans stuff... I am trans myself and this is fiction, not all experiences are universal for trans people, etc. I did my best.
> 
> Also please forgive me bashing Patrice's family. I just want to make an interesting narrative. I'm sure they're all lovely people in real life.
> 
> This is a random-ass detail but Brad has a Chevy Colorado and Patrice has a Toyota Tacoma because those are the trucks me and my boyfriend (respectively) drove when we worked at the hospital.


End file.
